


I Like It When You Tell Me

by unamaga



Series: sweating out confessions [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Prostate Massage, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unamaga/pseuds/unamaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek sighs, envisioning Stiles pulling a file out of the nightstand and ruining whatever mood they might have managed to capture completely. What Stiles has in his hands when he turns back around is definitely not a file, though. Instead, it’s thick and black, curved into a wicked-looking c-shape with a small bullet vibrator jutting out of one end. </p><p>“That is not what I was expecting,” Derek admits honestly.</p><p>“Yeah, I can tell, you’re turning,” Stiles gestures to his own face, “you’re kind of, um, pink.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Like It When You Tell Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kashmir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashmir/gifts).



> Ahaha, so this was supposed to be a 400 word cheer-up fic for Julie about Stiles being a fussy bottom. Julie's alternate title suggestions: Ring Around the Hole, Butthole Surfers, and Everything's Better With Prostate Play. 
> 
> [NSFW visual](http://www.amazon.com/Trinity-Vibes-AC195-Realistic-Vibrating/dp/B005HQ3QHQ/ref=sr_1_4?s=hpc&ie=UTF8&qid=1371689790&sr=1-4&keywords=prostate+vibrator)

Derek has to admit that for a couple of red-blooded American males, he and Stiles spend shamefully little time actually inserting tab a into slot b. Neither of them have particularly strong feelings about it, and sometimes it’s just too much work to go through for a mediocre fuck - it helps that Stiles loves giving and receiving blowjobs almost more than he loves anything else on the planet, and that Stiles has hands so talented Derek has been known to nearly concuss himself on walls, bedposts, and, memorably, the freezer door handle.

But when they do muster up the energy and the time for anal sex, and on the rare occasion that Stiles is on the bottom, Derek tries to make the most of it. 

The thing is, though – Stiles is _fussy_. 

He’s not fussy so much about cleanliness, or condoms, or even lube, but it’s like having a back seat driver telling him where to turn when Derek’s taking them back to his own damned house. He knows the route, he _knows_ what he’s doing. He’s had a dick for going on thirty years now and he’s been using it sexually for over half that time. But Stiles is never happy unless he’s pulling at Derek’s hair and telling him, “Angle up, just – just tilt your hips – I said up, not to the right, Jesus,” squirming around irritably on the bed until Derek gets fed up and comes out of sheer self-defense.

Even though it’s an exercise in exasperation fucking Stiles, at least they usually both end the evening with an orgasm or two under their belts. 

Tonight is different. 

Stiles has been making noises about fucking for most of the afternoon, in his extremely subtle way (“Hey, I think I’m gonna go shower.” “Yeah, ok.” “You wanna join me?” “Nah, I’m good, showered a couple of hours ago.” “Derek, come wash my butthole.”), so Derek laid out the supplies over an hour ago in preparation. But now that they’re on the bed together, something’s wrong. 

Stiles keeps glancing over at the nightstand with a puzzled frown around his eyes, the kind he gets sometimes when he’s trying to figure out a case. Derek soldiers on determinedly for a couple of minutes, sucking a mark onto Stiles’ chest and then kissing down his stomach, but the quiet gets to him, and he eventually gives up. Resting his chin on Stiles’ hip next to his half-hard cock, Derek looks up at him. 

“Are you trying to levitate that over here with the power of your mind?”

Stiles doesn’t startle, but his heart stutters guiltily when he glances down at Derek like he’d completely forgotten he was there. 

“Maybe?” he tries. After a second, he hurriedly concedes, “Okay, no, stop making that face at me. I just.” Stiles pauses and licks nervously at his lower lip a few times, and then seems to gather his courage. “I want fucked, that’s totally not the problem, I want something up my ass and I want it to be somewhat dick shaped, full stop. But, um, I have this – look, can I just show you something? And can this be, like, a completely judge-free safe space, because your eyebrows are hurting my feelings right now.”

Derek sighs, envisioning Stiles pulling a file out of the nightstand and ruining whatever mood they might have managed to capture completely. What Stiles has in his hands when he turns back around is definitely not a file, though. Instead, it’s thick and black, curved into a wicked-looking c-shape with a small bullet vibrator jutting out of one end. 

“That is not what I was expecting,” Derek admits honestly.

“Yeah, I can tell, you’re turning,” Stiles gestures to his own face, “you’re kind of, um, pink.”

Derek ignores that. He takes a discreet sniff, and only smells new silicone and plastic, so at least Stiles hasn’t tried it without him. Although – Stiles alone in their bed, sweating and ruddy with exertion, slowly sliding down on the girth of that toy and taking it until he’s split open and panting, knees slipping on the sheets while he shakes and tries to fuck himself how he needs it. 

_Oh_. 

Somewhere far away, Stiles is still talking.

“It’s not that I don’t love your dick, because, come on, all three of us know how much I love your dick. I would write odes to your dick if I knew how to write odes, or sonnets I guess because those are supposed to be romantic or something, but I’m not really good at rhyming, and my point is that I love your dick. It just – it’s so straight, too straight for fucking, and I want it not to be straight, but that’s, like, impossible, so I thought maybe this was the next best thing.” 

“Stiles,” Derek says very carefully, curling his fingers around the toy one by one. Stiles’ eyes snap to the motion and instantly start to glaze over. “Give me the lube.”

“Fuck yes,” Stiles breathes, and bursts into motion, grabbing the lube and tossing it over his shoulder at Derek on his way to laying down. He wriggles around for a minute, getting comfortable, then pulls his knees up to his chest and spreads himself wide. 

Derek fumbles the cap of the lube and squirts it out all over his own thigh, but eventually gets enough on his fingers to push them inside Stiles’ tight pink hole. He feels Stiles shudder around him, but he’s busy trying to get Stiles as wet as possible as fast as possible without hurting him and doesn’t look up. The thought of waiting another second to see Stiles stretched around that toy is impossible. As soon as Stiles gasps and hitches his hips up into Derek’s palm, Derek slides his fingers out and lubes up the toy. 

“Ready?” 

Stiles nods quickly. “Yeah, come on, I’ve had that thing in there for a week and it’s been _killing me_.”

Derek kneels up between Stiles’ thighs, props Stiles’ feet up on his shoulders, and spares one last glance up before he starts pushing the toy inside. It’s not that long, but the shape is difficult, and twice Stiles has to reach down and help guide it in the right direction. It’s worth it, though, when the toy seems to finally slot into place and Stiles jerks like he’s been shot, toes curling around the muscles of Derek’s shoulders. 

“Jesus,” Derek manages, breathless. He nudges the toy, pressing it firmly against Stiles’ perineum, and Stiles makes a kind of gasping noise Derek has never heard before. “Stiles, oh my god.”

It’s a revelation, watching Stiles twitch and moan around the toy. Derek barely even has to move it, just sits there struck dumb with lust, because Stiles is rotating his hips almost like he can’t help it, his greedy hole sucking at the last few inches of the toy’s curve in rhythm with Stiles’ tensing thigh muscles. They’ve tried almost every other thing Stiles could think of, up to and including role play and tentative rope bondage, and Derek has _never_ seen him this taken apart before. It’s gorgeous. _He’s_ gorgeous. 

After a few minutes, Stiles’ hips start to lose their rhythm and Stiles’ moans turn softer and more frustrated. His thighs are shaking with strain. 

“I’ve got you,” Derek says, sparing a moment to marvel at how pliant and undemanding Stiles is being, and presses a kiss to Stiles’ knee as he bends it back towards Stiles’ stomach. “I’ve got you, I’ll get you there.”

It only takes Derek a couple of minutes to figure out the best way to move the toy – short, undulating thrusts, less pressure upwards than he’s used to Stiles needing from his fingers – and then Stiles is digging into the headboard with his nails, letting out these hot little sobs of Derek’s name and pleas for more. After that, no matter what Derek does it just seems to drive Stiles higher and higher until he’s incoherent and noising into the crook of his own arm, tossed over his face like he has to hide from how much he’s feeling. 

Derek wants desperately to see his face, but he can’t reach up and knock Stiles’ arm away without stopping the even rhythm of the toy, and he can already tell Stiles is so close, his cock jumping and pulsing against his stomach, dripping almost continuously now with precome. Stiles’ entire stomach is smeared with it.

“Come on, lemme see you,” Derek says instead, practically begs. “Please, Stiles, I wanna see your face when I make you come.”

For a second, Derek thinks Stiles might be too far gone to understand him, but then Stiles’ arm drops to the side. He’s _wrecked_ , face red and blotchy with tears and sweat, and before he knows what’s happening Derek’s cock is jerking and he’s coming all over his own thighs and the bed, orgasm shaking through him for long seconds while he hangs on to Stiles’ knee and fights to keep hold of the toy. After a minute of Derek pressing his open mouth to his own arm, trying to catch his breath, he hears Stiles start to make high, needy sounds, and grasps the toy to start again. He finds the rhythm easily this time, and doesn’t waste any time teasing. 

He only thinks about the little button on the vibrator when he sees Stiles’ toes start to curl with the beginnings of his orgasm, and by then it almost seems cruel. But Derek is already kind of addicted to Stiles strung out and sobbing for him, feels like maybe he’s missed the opportunity to do this too many times, and he can’t help himself. He hits the button, and it’s like hitting a switch inside Stiles too. He arches with what little leverage he has and goes still for a long, aching second, before his orgasm hits him with the kind of ferocity that’s hard to watch - Derek can’t even imagine how it must feel. 

He has to hold Stiles’ thighs open with his free hand to keep fucking him through it; he’s never been more thankful for his strength than right then, because Stiles is chanting, slurred, “Don’ stop, don’ stop, Der, oh, don’ stop,” and Derek wants to give him everything. He keeps fucking into Stiles with those short, measured thrusts long after he thinks Stiles should be oversensitive, and Stiles just takes it and takes it.

“So good,” Derek tells him hoarsely. “Oh, fuck, look at you. Should I stop?”

Stiles shakes his head against the pillow and presses back into the toy like Derek might take it away. Derek swallows hard. 

“Okay, I’ll – just tell me when it’s too much.”

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to work up to another orgasm, and this one seems to hit him even harder and longer than the first. His cock is only half hard, but it dribbles more come against his messy stomach for a long minute or two while Stiles moans out obscenities above. 

Derek feels his stomach heat all over again, his fevered imagination working overtime, picturing Stiles tied to the bed and coming for him until he’s begging to stop, covered chin to navel in his and Derek’s sweat and jizz. It’s a heady thought, and it takes him a second to register Stiles’ hand touching his wrist and slowing him down. 

“I can’t, I can’t,” Stiles is saying. He sounds rough and broken, and his fingers are weak on Derek’s hand. 

The toy gets tossed to the other side of the bed as Derek quickly edges up Stiles’ body to touch his face and kiss him quiet. 

“I’ve got you,” he tells Stiles again, anchoring him down with his weight. Stiles fusses for a moments, then relaxes in increments until he’s warm and pliable, curling his arms up under Derek’s chest, closing his eyes. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says softly.


End file.
